


Fascinating Data

by laurenagarret (CrimsonWild)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Post Reichenbach, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:50:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonWild/pseuds/laurenagarret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their friendship had transformed into something new, John was aware of this. What he wasn’t aware of was what Sherlock would do to get the data he needed to confirm everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fascinating Data

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Suddenly, porn. Red pants included.](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14757) by nooneexpected. 



> This story could possibly contains swears, sexual situations and male/male relationships AND sex. If any of this offends you please go elsewhere. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of Sherlock’s declaration. I re-read it and thought that maybe it was a little too Mills and Boon for someone like Sherlock Holmes, but I could be wrong.

If John were to pin point exactly when things changed in regards to his relationship with Sherlock Holmes than he would have to say that it started at St Barts.

Eighteen months after the fall and a year after Sherlock’s return, John awoke in an unusually bright hospital room his arm in a cast, head pounding and Sherlock sitting beside his bed, head down and typing away on his phone. John was struck with a similar image of Anthea during the many times that she had come to _collect_ him but to mention the likeness would probably put Sherlock in a worse mood than he already was.

With his head down and curls moving with every slight movement of his head, John could only just see the furrows in the detective’s forehead. It wasn’t often that he saw Sherlock look perplex with something and from where he was sitting John had a feeling that it was because Sherlock hadn’t left his side and as a result had been unable to go away and test whatever theory was running through his mind. Before John was able to ask what Sherlock was doing, the taller man looked up and John was almost blown away by the intensity of his gaze.

Blue-grey eyes scanned every millimetre of his body, looking for something that John didn’t know about and honestly didn’t care much for. He was more interested in the look on Sherlock’s face.

He had never seen Sherlock look at someone the way that he was looking at John. With forehead furrowed, lips tight and eyes so intense John was sure they could start a fire if directed at something flammable; Sherlock looked the part of a man who was seeing the damage done to a loved one for the first time. Then like flood the night before washed over him: the murder victim found that morning, Sherlock’s deductions leading them, Lestrade and his team to an abandoned warehouse, the fight between him and one of the murderers, the floor giving out beneath him and his name being called out as he fell before everything went black.

When John opened his eyes Sherlock was sitting back in his chair, the usual emotionless expression on his face. He waited a couple of seconds as if waiting for John to start asking questions and when nothing came he gave the same exasperated sigh he always gave before insulting someone at the yard. ‘About time. You were beginning to worry the Doctors.’

‘Just the Doctors?’

‘Maybe Lestrade as well. I had to force him to go back to the Yard when you didn’t wake up in the projected time given,’ Sherlock explained. He tapped his phone a couple of times. ‘You were supposed to wake up hours ago. The Doctors said that while the fall was bad enough to knock you unconscious and give you a mild concussion you weren’t supposed to stay under as long as you were.’

‘Well I’ve never really been one for doing as I was told,’ John said.

‘Yes. That much is obvious,’ Sherlock deadpanned.

The conversation was brief but John got the gist of it. He had become good at reading between the lines over the years of living with Sherlock and most of his time with the consulting detective was spent refining that skill. The fall had scared Sherlock, so much so that he had dropped his usual mask of indifference and actually shown some emotion that was directly pointed at John. When he was finally released from hospital things seemed to go back to normal; John went back to blogging about their cases (as best he could with a cast and all) while Sherlock looked over his shoulder and mocked or threw in a few unneeded comments.

A week after his release John started to notice the touches. They started out few and far between; a graze of fingers on the back of his neck as he looked over John’s shoulders, hands rubbing against one and other when passing some object, and one time Sherlock’s hands on his hips as he pushed past him at the kitchen sink to get to the fridge.

It was that intimate touch that made John acknowledge all of the other strokes that Sherlock had given him since his return from the hospital. John put it down to Sherlock making sure that John was actually home and not still in the hospital and left it at that.

A few days later he noticed the continual observation. At odd times during the day John would catch Sherlock watching him and John knew when he was being watched. Conditioning and experience in the army had caused the physical reaction of the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when someone was watching him intently. It had served its purpose in Afghanistan but was only serving to confuse him in regards to Sherlock.

He could be doing something as mundane as making a cup of tea but Sherlock would be watching him from his perch on the couch as if he was the most interesting puzzle that he was determined to solve. Then there were the times when John would look up from the paper, his book or even his laptop, catch Sherlock staring and Sherlock would instantly look down as if he was thirteen years old and looking at his first crush.

What brought John to comprehend that something had changed was when he went to get his cast off six weeks later. X-rays showed that the break had healed well and while he would have to watch what he did with the arm for a few more weeks, overall everything was fine.

Sherlock had kept John’s attention away from the whirling of the plaster saw; never talking, just running his fingers over John’s free hand, drawing his attentiveness away from a medical instrument that gave John the bad kind of goose bumps regardless of whether he was the one holding the saw or if he was the recipient. Knowing the person holding the saw didn’t help in the slightest and despite all reasonable knowledge that the saw wasn’t sharp enough to cut off his arm and at best would give you a bad carpet burn if it was left on his skin for too long John could still see flashes of his arm being sawn off in the back of his mind.

Of course Sherlock had noticed. He would have been an idiot if he hadn’t seen the way John had flinched when the saw was turned on. So he had done the only thing that he could think of to help his friend through and had taken his attention away from the object causing him discomfort by drawing patterns on the top of his hand. First he drew a bunny, which had caused John to smile, then he had copied a couple of notes from one of his favourite pieces, then he had just drawn figure eights.

John didn’t turn his head in the direction of his arm until the saw had turned off and Sherlock had stopped drawing on his hand. He was sure that if he had had to lay down for the procedure than he would have fallen asleep until Sherlock’s ministrations; saw or no saw.

The doctor did a few reflex moves to make sure that everything was ok and there hadn’t been a problem with the x-rays before suggesting that he wash the plaster dust off his arm and left with a cheery goodbye. John was more than happy to wash his arm, the dust was starting to itch and he wouldn’t have been able to stand the feeling all the way back to Bakers street. Once he was done he turned around to find Sherlock standing in exactly the same spot, holding John’s coat, ready to help him into it as he had done every time they went out of the past six weeks.

Banter was normal during the drive back to 221B but the moment John got his coat off, Sherlock herded him over to the couch, made him sit him down and started to do his own examination. John complied with all orders given, he made a fist with his hand, he rolled his wrist plus a couple of other movements that John was sure Sherlock had made up in his mind.

‘You have no pain?’ Sherlock asked, holding the arm and gazing at it like it held the answers to the universe.

‘None,’ John replied.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sherlock, if that last move you asked me to do didn’t cause any pain that I doubt that there is going to be any. It’s been six weeks,’ John said.

Sherlock snorted. ‘Six weeks might be ample enough time to mend bones but some muscle damage can last for months, sometimes even years.’

John already knew this. At odd times his shoulder could give him sharp jabs of pain when he was doing nothing more than carrying a cup of tea across the room for Sherlock and himself. He was drawn out of his thoughts as long, slim fingers ran down the underside of his forearm so lightly they barely touched but left a ticklish trail in their wake. ‘I’m fine, Sherlock.’

The words seemed to have clicked something because then Sherlock lent down a kiss on the inside of his wrist.

Everything seemed to freeze afterwards. Neither were able to move until John pulled his arm out of Sherlock’s grasp and gave him what he hoped was a normal smile. ‘I’m going to have a shower and go to bed.’

All John got in reply was a barely audible ‘Ok.’

That night John was unable to sleep. He lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling as the sounds of one of his favourite pieces of music floated up. He knew that it wasn’t being played for him as he had never told Sherlock that he liked it and he doubted that if Sherlock knew he would be playing it after what happened earlier. Then again it was Sherlock and he rarely did anything that people predicted.

What had happened only hours before kept replaying in his head bring with it new feelings and highlighting memories that John hadn’t realised he had kept. Analysing the change in their friendship brought with it the knowledge that Sherlock hadn’t been the only one what had changed how he acted around John. As he searched through the memories of the past six weeks he realised that he too was guilty of innocent touches and grips on hips; surveying his flatmate at odd times in the day and blushing when Sherlock had caught him looking.

Awareness of what it all meant inundated his mind and his senses until everything else was just washed away. He had developed feelings for Sherlock Holmes. He didn’t know when they had started to form, they could have started the moment John had laid eyes on him or they could have started after Moriarty became a larger focal point. Regardless of when they started, they had been there when Sherlock had _left_ ; it was why his _death_ had affected him as bad as it did. And over the past few months they had been steady grown into something that John had only felt once before, and they had stayed hidden until tonight – when Sherlock had kissed his wrist.

With this understanding a new question started to push forward to the forefront of his mind _. Did Sherlock feel the same way?_ John gathered from the information that he had seen and felt over the weeks that it was possible that he did, but Sherlock had a way of placing his emotions in a box and not allowing them to escape unless it was case related; otherwise he paraded around the place like a cold, unfeeling human being.

With thoughts swirling around his mind, John pushed back the covers and headed down to the kitchen. Maybe a nice cup of tea would help him collect his thoughts.

The kettle had just boiled when Sherlock emerged from his room, violin bow swinging from his long fingers and still dressed in his clothes from the day before. Only his hair was ruffled in such a way that it looked like he had run his hands (or his violin bow) through it one too many times and his purple shirt was opened to the middle of his chest. Barefooted he padded into the lounge, placing the violin in its usual resting place and lying down on the couch as if he had no idea that John was in the kitchen. John looked away. It was one thing to finally come into comprehension of ones feelings for their best friend but it was another thing entirely to stare at them openly when they were looking the way Sherlock currently was.

_Besides_ , a voice in the back of his head said. _It was quite possible that Sherlock might have been running some kind of experiment when he had kissed John’s wrist earlier. He might have been trying to see if he could feel a pulse with his lips or if something like a kiss could cause pain to his newly healed arm._

‘Quite possibly both,’ John muttered to himself.

‘What do you mean?’ Sherlock baritone voice said from behind him. John very nearly jumped and spilt his tea; the only thing stopping him was Sherlock’s close proximity, almost as if he had intended to keep the blonde boxed in against the kitchen bench.

‘P-pardon?’ John replied, turning around in the small amount of space he had.

‘What do you mean _quite possibly both_?’ Sherlock asked. He face held the same emotionless expression but his eyes were studying his face, waiting for John to start lying to him.

‘I was talking to myself. There is no need for you to worry and when did you start creeping around like a cat?’

‘When my flat mate started to talk to himself,’ Sherlock replied not a second later. His eyes unable to detect any kind of lie so either John was getting better at it or he had told enough of the truth that his facial expressions hadn’t contracted in the way they usually did when they lied.

‘Did you want something?’ John asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock said. His voice sounded uncertain; a striking contrast to the look on his face.

‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I’ve been trying to work it out for the past few weeks, since I came back,’ Sherlock said so soft that John could only barely hear it. ‘I noticed you watching me much more regularly than you did before and I put it down to you subconsciously making sure that my return wasn’t some dream that you were going to wake up from at any minute. Then I noticed the touches, they weren’t frequent and once again I put them down to some kind of reassurance on your part. But then you fell.’ Sherlock drifted off slightly and looked down at John’s now cast free arm. ‘Lestrade was the one to spot the two of you first but we both saw you fall. I wondered during the whole scene if what I had felt right then had been what you had felt when you saw me jump off St Barts. I wondered if your heart seemed to cease beating and twist in awkward angles as mine had or if you had simply disregarded all physical feeling and focused on watching and getting to me.’

‘All normal reactions,’ John quietly stated.

‘Waiting for you to wake up was worse. The Doctors said that you sustained injuries that wouldn’t cause you to be unconscious for more than a couple of hours, yet you didn’t wake up for twelve. I’ve never been so terrified and numb before in my life,’ Sherlock said. The kitchen fell into silence once more as Sherlock gathered his thoughts and John stayed perfectly still, afraid that the slightest movement would cause Sherlock to revert back to his old unexplained ways.

‘I heard someone call your name, Lestrade told me that it had been me, but it couldn’t have been because I am sure I would have known if I had spoken and it call seemed so-so-so wretchedly heartbroken that the very thought of it being me was absurd. When we got home from the hospital I hoped that everything went back to the way they were before. They didn’t and I couldn’t comprehend why my body needed to have some kind of physical affirmation that you were here, but one touch led to another until I became bolder.’

‘Touching my hips at the kitchen sink,’ John said.

‘Exactly,’ Sherlock wet his lips. ‘Visual affirmation wasn’t enough obviously and touching seemed to make this feeling lessen, as if the simple gesture of me touching you was enough to curb the beast inside, for a short time anyway. When I knew my touch wasn’t going to be welcome I could do nothing more than watch but it didn’t do anything except make this feeling increase; make me want to reach out and pull up close’ Sherlock’s hands  cupped his face and John almost shuddered as he ran a thumb along his lips.  

‘Sherlock?’

Sherlock stepped closer, pushing John against the bench hard enough that the corner dug into his back. ‘I don’t know why I did what I did last night. The kiss was an impulse. Something inside me, this feeling, curled its way through me, taking over and telling me that it’s what I needed to do and while it helped with the feeling all it did was create doubt when I looked up and saw the confused look on your face. I’ve spent the night running through the whole scene in my mind and the only conclusion that I have been able to come to is that at some point you, John Watson, grabbed hold of me in a way that no one else has ever done before. The whole sensation is thrilling and frightening and I’m unsure what to make of it. Kissing your wrist last night presented me with enough data for me to realise that I want to do it again.’

‘Kiss my wrist?’ John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and leant in, his breath gliding out and hitting John’s lips as he talked. ‘No. I want to kiss you here.’

There wasn’t much of a distance between John’s lips and Sherlock’s but is seemed to take an age before they met. It was soft; Sherlock testing the waters and John being so shocked that he wasn’t sure that he wanted to move. It wasn’t until Sherlock ran his tongue tentatively across John’s lips that he realised what was happening and his mouth opened in astonishment. The shift of John’s lips caused Sherlock to smile before plunging his tongue into the doctor’s mouth.

John had kissed like this before, multiple times on multiple partners; but from conversations he had overheard between Sherlock and Mycroft, Sherlock’s experience in anything regarding as large as sex and as small as kissing was limited at best. It was why it came as a surprise for the shorter man that Sherlock’s abilities surpassed that of any of John’s previous encounters; a fact that John was sure would place a cocky smile on Sherlock’s face for days.

Sherlock’s tongue ran along Johns, sucking and swirling until John was certain that if Sherlock continued and added in that nipping nibblely thing that he had done at the beginning, John would easily come just from kissing alone. The urge to take control rolled over John but Sherlock had him pressed hard against the bench and no matter where he pushed John could not make him move. It just added to the pull at Sherlock’s lips. When air became a problem, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away, but not before running his tongue across John’s lips once more.

They stood panting, Sherlock’s forehead pressed against John’s for minutes until John looked up and his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. ‘Did that answer your questions?’

Sherlock have a laugh that was a mixture between a pant and a laugh. His chest was heaving and John was sure that if they were pressed any closer he would be able to feel Sherlock’s elevated heartbeat through his chest. ‘Yes, but to be sure I need more data.’

Long, thin fingers ran along John’s jaw line while their partners gripped one of John’s hips. The fingers on his jaw curved and followed the line of his neck until they reached John’s jugular. Sherlock stared transfixed as his finger tip feel the rushed throbbing of the artery circulating blood to John’s brain. His pinkie grazed along the circular collar of John’s shirt and John saw something click over in Sherlock’s mind before the hand skimmed down John’s torso until it was resting on John’s other hip. John wasn’t sure that Sherlock and he could be much closer, but Sherlock obviously disagreed and pulled John towards him, relieving the sharp pain to John’s back caused by the bench.

Clothed half erection brushed against each other in glorious friction, sending waves of pleasure through John’s body. Sherlock registered the feeling as well, but was more interested in John’s own reaction and to replicate it he moved his hips in a circular motion. It took three circles before John was fully erect and he let his head fall back, placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder and giving Sherlock complete access to his neck. And it just all the invitation that Sherlock needed.

The tip of Sherlock’s tongue ran from the nape of John’s neck and up until it connected with John’s jaw. The intermittent grazing of teeth along his jaw line between kisses had John gripping the edge of the bench for more stability but it was Sherlock sucking on his earlobe that made John’s knees go weak and almost buckled. Sherlock’s fingers had found their way to the bottom of his t-shirt and were now teasing the flesh beneath. Sherlock nuzzled John’s ear.

‘I believe that we are both entirely too over dressed for what I have planned,’ Sherlock whispered. To John it was almost like he shouted it.

After getting no reaction for a few minutes, Sherlock decided that it must have been up to him to undress the both of them, while John had his eyes closed and was breathing deeply, trying to get some oxygen to his brain so he didn’t pass out. Then he felt Sherlock’s fingers gripping the bottom of his shirt. They didn’t immediately start to move, instead they just gripped waiting to see if John was about to put a stop to everything.

To Sherlock’s astonishment John didn’t tell him to stop. Instead the doctor reached out, grabbed either side of his opened shirt and pulled him in for a kiss; of course Sherlock wouldn’t have called this particular contact a kiss. It was more like having rough, needy sex using only their mouths.

John’s tongue plundered Sherlock’s mouth; exploring, nipping, sucking, swirling, finding all those delicious movements that made the usually emotionally controlled man shudder and moan. Whether this was part of Sherlock’s plan or not John didn’t know and in all honesty he really didn’t care.

He grip loosened on Sherlock’s shirt and instead found their way into dark curls that had been ignored up until this point. Even before the discovery of his feelings, John had always wondered what it would have felt like to run his fingers through those curls and now he had his answer. Sherlock’s own hands were making their way up John’s chest, touching every piece of flesh that he could get his hands on. The side of his hand shamelessly brushed against a nipple at the same time Sherlock pushed John against the bench once more.

John broke the kiss with a hiss and momentarily Sherlock didn’t know if he had been too rough or not. Then John rasped out a breathy ‘ _again’_ filling Sherlock with a pride he didn’t know could have existed. Making John hiss the way he had had gone straight to his straining erection and the friction between the two of them wasn’t helping in the slightest; he looked over John as he rolled his hips and brushed his thumbs over nipples and knew that compared to himself, John was closer to the breaking point. With one final circle of his thumbs, Sherlock removed his hands from John’s shirt.

When he was able to think clearly again, John wondered what had happened to cause Sherlock’s sudden retreat. He didn’t have to wait long to find his answer. First his t-shirt was pulled up and over his head and thrown over Sherlock’s shoulder. Then his pyjama pants were pushed off his hips and down his legs until John stepped out of them and pushed them to the side. Sherlock’s thumbs ran along the tops of John’s underwear, taking them in with a slight turn up at the side of his lips. Red. Sherlock had never seen anyone in red underwear before, but even if he had he didn’t think they would have had the same reaction on him as seeing John in red underwear did.

Something clicked in John’s brain. At the moment everything was entirely one side, after all Sherlock still had his clothes on. John’s control urge flicked on and he reached up to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. It was thrown in the general direction of John’s own t-shirt before he started to work on Sherlock’s pants. Fingers gripped John’s hips tightly as he slowly slipped the zipper down, causing unusual and pleasurable sensation to run down the length of Sherlock’s cock. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I thought that would be obvious,’ John replied in his best Sherlock impersonation. A full blown smirk appeared on the detectives face at the sound and disappeared with a hiss when after pulling Sherlock’s pants off (and discovering that he hadn’t been wearing anything underneath) John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s erection. He ran his hand up from root to tip, stopped and circled the head with his thumb, smearing pre-cum as it went.

The sensation was new and completely welcome, Sherlock thought. If he had known that this was how it felt to be performing these kinds of acts all these years than maybe he wouldn’t have remained celebrant. Then again it could be just because it was John performing these acts that made the whole situation more pleasurable. Gathering that kind of data disappeared from Sherlock’s mind because of two reasons 1. he couldn’t think what it would be like to perform these acts with someone else and 2. John had knelt down on his knees in front of Sherlock and given the head of his cock a tentative lick. Any other thoughts regarding gathering data were struck from Sherlock’s mind as John engulfed him.

John had never given a blow job to a man before; a guy had performed one on him but that was during his time in the army and what happened in the army stayed in the army. Despite his lack of experience, John still felt confident as his lips circled Sherlock’s cock and he pushed it further and further into his mouth until his nose was touching the wiry curls at the bottom.

Above him, Sherlock had threaded his fingers in John’s hair. They weren’t tight, just firm enough to cause a spark of excitement to rush through John’s body before he started to pull up, his tongue trailing along the vein at the bottom. Once back at the tip, John swirled his tongue around while sliding a hand up and dock Sherlock’s cock. He engulfed Sherlock’s cock again, this time lightly grazing his teeth along it and then released the organ. Above, Sherlock let out a whine the made it sound like he was in pain but it was quickly replaced by moans as John turned his attention to his balls. He sucked, nibbled, licked and rolled them, getting encouraged with every moan and noise that was made above him.

When he took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth the next time he continued to play with his balls. Not even a minute later John felt them tightening and knew that if he wasn’t going to see this completely through than now was the time to back off and turn it into a hand job. Instead of backing off, John took as much of Sherlock as he could into his mouth, rolled his balls and then did something that Sherlock hadn’t been expecting; he started to hum one of Sherlock’s own compositions. Combining everything sent Sherlock over the edge and he exploded in John’s mouth.

Knees giving out, Sherlock sank to the floor in front of John, chest heaving and brain completely quiet. It was just starting to reboot when John ran a tongue over his lips bringing another moan from his chest. Sherlock crossed his legs like he had been taught in school before dragging a startled John over and sitting him on his lap. Unable to sit in any other position, John straddled the man below him before cupping the back of his head with both hands and pulling the detective in for a kiss.

It wasn’t as heated as the last one. It had been about exploring, tasting and control; this one was sweet, the kind you give first thing in the morning after waking up. Slow, gentle and loving, tongues slid against each other in a synchronised dance. Neither were willing to pull away until Sherlock felt John’s erection pressing against his stomach. Sherlock pulled away, still able to taste the mixture of himself and something that was purely tongue on his tongue as he did, and looked up at the blonde on his lap.

With one hand placed on the small of John’s back, Sherlock slowly brought the other up to cup John through his underwear. The resounding hiss seemed to echo in the room and Sherlock watched every reaction John made as he added a little more pressure. ‘S-sh-hah-haa’

‘Fascinating John,’ Sherlock said adjusting his hands position so it was sitting on top of the bulge. ‘Need more data.’

It struck Sherlock as he stroked John through his underwear that it was possible that he would be able to make John cum just but this kind of touch alone; and while the thought had merit and would allow Sherlock the chance to study what touches cause what reactions, he didn’t want John to come like that. At least not this time.

Keeping John’s attention completely on what he was touching, Sherlock reached up onto the table for the knife that he knew was lying near where there were sitting. It took a little bit of fumbling but Sherlock managed to find it, and another item that he was sure would be needed, before John realised what he was doing. Leaning in, Sherlock licked the outer shell of John’s ear while running a single, solitary finger along the underside of John’s constrained cock. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll buy you a new pair.’

John didn’t have time to think about what Sherlock was going to buy him a new pair of before he felt the cool metal of the knife slide under his underwear and cut them along the seams. The same was done to the other side until Sherlock was able to easily slip them off the doctor. John sat stunned for a second before pulling Sherlock’s head close.

‘ _Never_ do that again,’ John said through gritted teeth.

‘The removal of your underwear or the knife’s part in it?’

‘The knife,’ John gritted, rolling his hips.

Sherlock pulled John closer, so their erections were pushed against each other. Sherlock’s original plan had been to suck and kiss his way along John’s neck until he was a pile of goo so Sherlock could prepare him. John had other ideas and started to grind against Sherlock. The sensation was extraordinary and Sherlock was quite happy to end things that way. Then the original plan started to reform in his mind.

Sherlock slicked his fingers with the baby oil that he had been using for an experiment and slicked his fingers. He circled John’s entrance with a finger causing the rhythm that they had set to falter slightly and fall down a couple of intensity notches. Sherlock timed it perfectly and didn’t push his first finger in until John had pushed himself against Sherlock as far as he could. A shiver ran through John’s body, and he stopped grinding completely, instead turning his focus onto what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock tested the water, moving the finger in and out, curling it until he hit that one spot that had John moaning. Then he added another finger and started to scissor them. Sherlock made sure to brush against his prostate as often as he could, loving the sounds and moans that John made when his fingers brushed against it. When he was sure, Sherlock removed his fingers wrapped an arm around John’s waist and lifted him enough free his own erection and keep John’s trapped. He then slicked it with oil and positioned it at John’s entrance.

John held onto Sherlock’s shoulders, waiting until he couldn’t wait any longer and slowly lowered himself down. The flabbergasted look on Sherlock’s face was enough for John to realise that Sherlock had planned this going a different way. John sunk down until he was ball deep filled with Sherlock. In this position he was the taller one and he looked down at his new lover, breathing deeply, getting used to the sensation. When he was sure that he was ready, John pulled them close enough so their foreheads were touching before lifting up and sliding down.

It started slow; Sherlock letting John set the pace as he got used to the feeling of being penetrated but even as he picked up the tempo John never let go of the back of back of Sherlock’s head. The tempo got faster and Sherlock readjusted John’s hips and hit gold. Every thrust after that stroked John’s prostate.

‘Oh god! Fuck! Faster Sherlock, harder!’ John hissed through his teeth as Sherlock’s balls slapped against his arse.

Sherlock moaned. ‘So tight John. So tight. So perfect.’

‘Come on baby,’ John moaned. ‘More, give me more.’

Soon Sherlock realised that the position they were in wasn’t giving them what they both wanted and needed; he made the quick twist and the next thing John new he was laying on his back, Sherlock leaning over him thrusting deeper and harder than he had before. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, pushing him in deeper.

Thrusts became faster and harder, skin slapped against skin, until Sherlock could feel that newly familiar feeling building up. He placed his head in the nape of John’s neck, wanting to draw everything out longer but knowing that he would be able to. The coils in both their stomachs tightened and then released. John’s moan of _‘Sherlock!_ ’ brought him over the edge and the detective muffled his own moan by bitting down on John’s clavicle before collapsing.

They lay on the kitchen floor, panting for god knows how long, until Sherlock pushed himself up onto his forearms and looked down at John. The movement inadvertently pulled Sherlock out of John and both reluctantly relinquished the connection.

John reached up and ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls. ‘Did you manage to collect the data you needed?’

‘Most definitely,’ Sherlock replied leaning down and capturing John’s lips in a kiss. They didn’t need to say anything else, both know what the other felt and for the moment they were happy to leave it unsaid.


End file.
